


floating

by qanterqueen



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Short little thing, its sad boys, we post this at midnight without editing like the authors we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 03:37:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13262820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qanterqueen/pseuds/qanterqueen
Summary: He’ll sit and wait with her until she dissolves. He’ll wait until she becomes nothing but a web of glass, interlaced and crafted beautifully just to land on a strangers’ skin and fade away.





	floating

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iS6ywB3x0l0

Snow falls like a memory.

When one focuses, really looks inside of the storm, individual snowflakes are easy to follow with the eyes. It’s unique, somehow-- the experience in itself as well as the flakes. There’s _millions_  of them, all falling like stars, but one can remember the specific patterns if one looks close enough. Not many people do.

The snow lands on skin, at some point. It dissolves and fades. It leaves behind a stinging, cold feeling that stays until a hand rubs it over and heat comes once more.

It lands and… and it is erased.

There’s left behind an unexplanable coldness. It’s easy to assume there used to be a snowflake; what else could leave behind such a cavity? It’s easy to go about the day, assuming snow keeps the body cold without being concerned of the particular artistry of it.

Of course, that’s now always the path of life.

There comes, every once in a while, a soul to observe the snow.

An artist, a scientist, a philosopher. A child. The label is subjective.

They are the ones to sit and observe, to commit the individual tapestries to memory before they fade. To each person the reasons are different for this pause. Maybe they’re procrastinating looking at other snowflakes. Maybe they’re particular to one flake-- they find that pattern pleasing to look at, and they have no more desire to see others. Maybe they like to analyze the pattern just to see what lies beneath it.

But some people just want to see them fall.

None of these apply to Kravitz.

He’s an accidental connoisseur of these arts.

He is the one that looks over the shoulder of these quiet artists. He gets to see what he shouldn’t-- those snowflakes, just perceptible to the observer, are his to see as well. It’s a guilty pleasure, but he feels none of the regret he should.

A lithe, weak hand reaches its way to his. It’s nearly buried in snow, but even so the dark skin shows from beneath. In the quiet of the fall he takes it. His fingertips brush against the palm of this hand and he ghosts there, savoring the feathery touch, before slipping his hand to lace fingers with it.

Both of them are cold, but it’s the least he can do for her.

Her memories float around them, falling and resting gently on their bodies, and somehow he has to thank her.

A girl, so young and happy, and her sister. They dance in the dirt together, staining the rags they wear and call gowns. They smile and they laugh because they’re not working, not right then. Right then they were on their short pause from cleaning and a marching band was roaming through the streets. They take each other hands and swing themselves around in a circle and it’s uncomfortable to watch.

A girl, older but still a child, sitting at a desk. She’s the oldest in her class-- taller and thinner and _stained_. Her robes have not changed and she no longer calls them gowns, but she’s still smiling. She’s the first to raise her hand in her classroom, and though the children behind her whisper and glare, she ignores any insecurities.

A girl, barely an adult, taking her first steps towards a building so clean that it’s intimidating to her. In her arms is a bag-- just one and it’s not full. From behind her, still waiting in the carriage, her sister crosses her arms and looks away, venom in her stare.

A girl, taking her first drink on her birthday. She watches her home from behind a glass window grow smaller and smaller. Hands clap her back and rub her shoulders and jostle her. She takes a sip and keeps drinking until the glass is empty, then she smiles.

A girl, filling what she missed with strangers she’s known for only two years and stepping foot onto a planet with purple floors with them. She looks around and wonders if this is her new home.

A girl, crying in front of a glass cage.

A girl, making wrong choices.

He watches them all.

“Please… please tell me… that I’ll be okay.”

He looks at the body before him, laid on the ground and covered in snow. It looks like a blanket over her, stark white save for a patch of crimson that grows slowly from her mouth.

Her face, so old and hardened for so long, is young now. It’s a cruel nod to what’s been taken from her. 

“You’re okay now.” He whispers to her, bringing their interlocked hands to his lips. His breath provides some of the warmth he can’t. He means what he says.

She won’t be having a funeral. This is it for her-- this is where she’s ended, this is her place of resting. Buried beneath the snow, a skeleton for later, alone and afraid-- this is how Lucretia dies.

He’ll sit and wait with her until she dissolves. He’ll wait until she becomes nothing but a web of glass, interlaced and crafted beautifully just to land on a strangers’ skin and fade away.

It’s not like he has anything better to do that to sit and watch the snowflakes fall.

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to come up with a reason that lucretia dies alone in a snowstorm, go straight ahead, caues it'll probably be better than mine.


End file.
